


Greed: Sketches of Hands on Bodies

by SolarasInc



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Flashbacks, Loose Structure Storytelling, M/M, Past F/M, Past Relationship(s), Related Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 16:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18369962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarasInc/pseuds/SolarasInc
Summary: A series of four related vignettes.  Four snapshots capturing single frames in the progression of the relationship of Nicholas Rush and Everett Young as remembered by Young, who may or may not have developed a fixation with keeping Rush's hands still for one damn minute.





	1. Forward Momentum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Stargate except a DVD. 
> 
> Author's Notes: I've resurrected this series of related shorts from an old hard drive I was clearing and formatting for my XBOX ONE. They were originally posted individually to LiveJournal circa 2010. I cleaned them a bit, fragmented some sentences, since poetry has taught me the love of the fragment, gave the whole thing a title, and decided to archive them lest I lose them again. 
> 
> The series is set vaguely mid season 1. Porn is in part 4--I know that's what you're here for ;)  
> Enjoy!

A metallic clang echoed every other step Colonel Young took in his progression down _Destiny’s_ corridors.  The sound carried up and down the hall; Young would not be sneaking up on anyone soon, but everyday his leg was doing better.  He told himself that.  Made himself believe it.  Too many larger burdens weighed heavily upon him, upon them all, to let himself be slowed down by his injury.  Young kept moving.  He had to keep moving forward; it’s all he could do: step—step-clang—step.

Rush was exactly where Young expected to find him: hunched over the (his) console; however, the Colonel hadn’t expected Eli to come scurrying over from the other side of the room with one hand waving a Kino about and the other pressing a finger over his lips.  Young allowed Eli to usher him back into the hallway.

“Don’t wake him up!” Eli whispered frantically.  “Er, Colonel.  I mean you could wake him up if you wanted to, but he just nodded off about fifteen minutes ago, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep yesterday, possibly the day before.  He’ll be pissy as hell that he fell asleep when he wakes up, but, ultimately, he’ll be in a better mood for sleeping.  And seeing as he lets me in there, well sometimes, it’d make my life that much better—”

“Eli, Eli,” Young halted the babble with a hand on the young man’s shoulder.  “It’s alright,” he continued as Eli looked anxiously back at him, rolling the Kino between his hands. 

Looking past Eli, the Colonel could see that, while Rush was indeed seated at the console, the man slumped heavily in the seat.  One hand, the arm bent at the elbow, supported Rush’s head, while the other hand seemed to have fallen limp, mid-work, on the console.  His lips were parted in the carelessness of sleep, his jaw was dark with several days’ worth of stubble, and his eyelids looked pale and thin above the purple shadows under them.  Young could well believe that Rush had been avoiding sleep again.  

“There isn’t an emergency,” Young said quietly, “it can wait.”

“Oh, okay,” Eli said, anxiety visibly deflating as his shoulders loosened and his body dropped into a slouch that screamed civilian.  “I’ll just go back to the math-boy thing then.  I’m hopping to finish the calculations Rush asked for and escape before he wakes up.”

“You do that Eli,” Young said and turned away from the control room, moving forward down the corridor, always forward.


	2. Conversational Pacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t out pace and catch up to Rush, but that didn’t matter.

 

“Good morning, Dr. Rush,” Colonel Young remarked, lips curving into a smirk just this side of a smile as he set his bowl of nutritional-keep you alive-taste be damned-so eat it anyway-mush on the table across from where Rush was pushing his own ration around with a spoon.  “You’re looking refreshed this morning.”

The spoon halted in its circulation as Rush’s fingers tensed, the flesh of his thumb and fingers whitening briefly against the press of the handle.  Young waited as Rush’s gaze darted swiftly around the near empty room; Rush always chose to eat (if he ate) at the end of a meal shift.  Young seated himself at the table and met Rush’s narrowed stare.  “Sarcasm, Colonel?” Rush sneered.  “Maybe, you should stick to doling out orders.”

“Orders don’t seem to compute with you, though,” Young began, one hand cupping his bowl, the other poised above it, elbow on the table, and spoon pointing down.  His back and shoulders were curved, hunching over the table toward Rush, carving a space of intimacy with his body.  “I believe,” Young continued in a low, secretive tone that pulled Rush in over the table, “that both TJ and I have told you to get more sleep.”

“And here I thought I was looking ‘refreshed,’ Colonel,” Rush replied, “and I’d _appreciate_ —” The word sounded like a warning to Young, full of rumbling growl at the beginning and bitten off at the end.  “—if you would mind your own business.”

“On this ship, _Doctor_ Rush, you are my business, so,” Young said, pointing his spoon at Rush, “no more working until you pass out.  I need you able to function at any possible moment.”

“Don’t try to turn me into one of your toy soldiers,” Rush hissed, his own body curved over the table, pushing into Young’s space.  “I’ll work as I see fit.  I’m the one who’s going to figure this mess out, figure this ship out, and you should stay out of my way.”  Rush pushed away from the table and turned sharply on his heel, walking away from Young, who watched him stalk out with his shoulders back, head high, and quick long stride seeming to take up more room than he rightly should.  Indignant. 

Young dipped his spoon into his bowl, brought it to his lips, and rolled, more so than chewed, the food-like substance around in his mouth before swallowing.  Everything was a fight with Rush, even getting the man to take care of himself.  As rough, tactless, and difficult as the scientist could be, however, they needed him.  Rush was right, about a lot of things, but mostly Young knew he was right that if anyone was going to gain any real understanding of _Destiny_ , it would be Rush. 

Pushing away his bowl, Young got a firm grip on his crutch and levered himself away from the table.  He couldn’t out pace and catch up to Rush, but that didn’t matter.  There was only one room on the ship Rush would be heading to, so Young took his time limping to the control room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each part gets slightly longer. A progression that looks intentional but totally wasn't. :)


	3. Weight of Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rush was a greedy man, but so was Young. Both consumed.

 

Young tested his leg gingerly, easing his weight onto it and away from his good leg.  He felt the pressure in his toes first, the way they pressed and flattened within his shoe; something he would normally take for granted.  The pressure extended to his heel, tingled in his ankle, crawled up his calf, pooled in his knee, burned along his thigh, and finally settled in his hip—his muscles and joints awakening.  Pain lingered dully, but manageable, underneath the stiffness.  Young took a few turns around his room, from wall to wall, working out the kinks.  Mornings were always the worst, but he was thankful to be moving around without the crutch, if somewhat slowly—

Emily—Telford’s gaze upon him, cutting through the borrowed body, to _him_.  He should have gone slower. He just wanted, wanted so bad, wanted something to hold onto… wanted too many things. 

Young took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.  Now was not the time.  Young allowed himself another breath, another moment, and then left his quarters.

“Colonel!” came the call before Young had gone more than a dozen steps.

“Yes, Dr. Volker,” Young replied, resigned to hearing the first request/demand/complaint of the day.

“About the ship exploration—” Volker began, trotting up to where Young had halted in the corridor.

“I’ve already told you,” Young said, holding up a hand to forestall the inevitable rambling, “I will discuss the power issues with Rush and get back to you.  Other matters have taken precedence recently.  I’m _sure_ you’ve noticed.”

“Yes, sir, of course, but now that we know _Destiny_ can recharge herself, we really should start looking at the scientific applications available to us.”

“If you can’t wait,” Young replied flatly, forcing his face into a blank mask, “you can always speak with Rush yourself.” 

Volker’s mouth opened and closed fish-like, and his eyes widened and darted around the corridor, seeming to catch on anything that wasn’t Young’s waiting gaze.  “No, no,” he said, tongue skimming over his lips, “that’s alright.  He’ll just—and I’ll get… I’ll just be on my way now.”

Young nodded in dismissal, and Volker walked backward two steps before turning and scurrying away.  Rush might be a pain in the ass, but he was a non-discriminating pain in the ass; the speaking to (or yelling as the case may be) Young might as well get over with.

Approaching Rush was best done quickly, like pulling off a band-aid, giving Rush no time to escape and Young no time to think better of the action.  He was in the control room as Young expected—the one point of predictability about Rush.

Rush’s head was bent low over the console.  He was always pushing in close to things now, ignoring boundaries, studying, observing, calculating.  In training, instructors would talk about survival situations stripping away patterns of behavior held in check by civilization.  Rush pressed a hand against right eye, digging in with the heel of his palm.  Young remembered the cool distance with which Rush would observe everyone on the Icarus base; distance afforded to him by society, by the tools of society—a fragile set of lenses in a flimsy frame.

Rush’s hand returned to the console.  His fingers skittered over the controls, flitting here and there in a greedy motion.  Young understood greed; he understood wanting what’s in hand now and what could be in hand next.  He knew all about wanting too much.

Young breathed in the exhilaration of understanding something about Rush, holding in the want to keep the feeling.  Rush was a greedy man, but so was Young.  Both consumed.

“Colonel?” Rush asked without turning.

Exhale.

Young knew—O, that way madness lies—what it was to want.

“Dr. Rush.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite ending of all 4. It's (I'm) such a tease.


	4. Avarice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was nothing like Emily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm…porn…and a little angst (okay maybe more), but mostly porn.

 

The insides of Rush’s thighs were smooth, the hair soft, and slick with sweat against Young’s hips.  His knees were sharp bones pressing, shifting against the mattress, against Young’s waist and lower ribs.  Against the outside of his thighs, Young felt the dig of Rush’s heels.

The fingers of Rush’s left hand rested jerkily on Young’s chest—a light jittery touch—while his right hand lay palm flat above Young’s knee, holding his weight.  Rush, eyes closed, grit his teeth as if trying to keep anything from escaping.

He was nothing like Emily.

Emily’s mouth would be open, gasping and moaning her delight and encouragement at every thrust.  Above Young, Emily’s back would arch and undulate like a cord whipping in the wind.  With Emily the pleasure was easy.  She was easy to read, easy to know.

Rush made him fight for it, work for it.  Young’s hands tightened around Rush’s hips.  His knees bent, altering the angle.  Young pulled Rush down, taking over the rhythm, and thrust up hard.  Rush sucked in a sharp breath that rattled through his throat.  Young repeated the move.  And again, wrenching a low grunt out of the man above him.  Rush curled over, his weight shifting as he thrust back.  Against.  Hard.

Young slid a hand up from Rush’s hip (feeling exertion’s slickness dripping down Rush’s spine), curling it around Rush’s thin waist—thin, thin like they were all thinning from rationing—thinning faster than some, faster than those who remembered to eat everyday.

Rolling, Young tumbled over and pushed Rush under him, grabbed those jittery, greedy hands, snaking their fingers, and pushed them to the mattress, halting the constant grasping for pens, paper, markers, chalk, cigarettes, numbers, calculations, theories, _Destiny_ , and thoughts so far beyond Young that it’s amazing Rush ever saw anything else.  Ever saw…

Young thrust hard and fast into Rush, who in turn bucked against him, back arching in a shuddering spasm.  If Young could just thrust hard enough and break Rush open, split him right through to the skull, then maybe Young could see into that mind and understand, could know.

Rush’s fingers curled—short, ragged nails biting into the backs of Young’s hands.  His eyes were sharp, narrowed slits: challenging, and Rush squeezed his legs around Young’s hips, pulling him in, but Young was wanting, greedy, and not in a giving mood.  He thrust in and covered Rush’s mouth, tongue in deep, taking—and Rush moaned a hungry sound.

Young sat up.  Pulled Rush up with his mouth, his hands, his cock buried so deep, so tight—and Young moaned in echo.  Rush sank into Young’s next thrust, and then up, grinding against Young’s stomach.  No longer fighting, but gasping short, shuddery breaths that Young felt ghosting over his skin.

Spreading his knees, Young pushed Rush’s thigh’s farther apart, and slipped his hand between them.  Rush’s head fell back, and Young licked along the exposed neck and jawline, tongue rasping against the stubble there.  He licked a path to Rush’s ear, sucked and bit at the lobe, and breathed—

“Come on, Rush,” in a voice that cracked with want.

Rush’s hands wrapped around Young’s back, sliding against slick skin…

“Come—”

          … fingers finding no purchase…

“on—”

          … sighing a sound like shattering…

“Rush.”

And Rush jerked against him, his arms trembling, his thighs shivering, his whole body seeming to vibrate, and Young continued to drive into him until Rush sagged bodily against him.

Rush threaded a hand into Young’s hair, clenching, and buried his face in Young’s shoulder.  Young felt Rush’s lips against his collarbone, a drag of flesh on flesh, then his tongue, warm and wet, and finally his teeth: a sharp bite.

Young held Rush to him, down onto him, tightly as his body stiffened, as the pressure built and coiled low in his spine.  He thrust shallowly as he started to shudder, and the pressure spilled out of him as sensation: a covetous, aching pleasure.

Young slumped into Rush.  They sagged and slumped into each other, panting, breathing from and into each other.  Young wanted the moment, to stay in the moment, to keep Rush in the moment.  He wanted to keep Rush still and languid until sleep claimed him.

“Sleep,” Young whispered.

Rush’s fingers twitched, and Young held them still.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. I hope this brightened your day. 
> 
> \--Solaras


End file.
